


amidst a gunshot and a cup of tea

by asexualizing (Specialcookies)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of. see more in notes), Domestic Fluff, Family Issues, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/pseuds/asexualizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a photo of him. He’s eight, or maybe eleven really. John honestly can’t tell. If he’d ask Sherlock, he could probably tell him that, and millions of other details John might remember and might have forgotten about. But John…he fights the urge to close the file and the computer, the urge to close his eyes and not see a thing, bites his lower lip distractedly until a metallic taste fills his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amidst a gunshot and a cup of tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagicM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicM/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Kid!John](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/82046) by zyarta. 



> this fic was written a long time ago, originally in hebrew, and for a reverse big bang. hence a few things i have to say:
> 
> i don't know where to place this fic timeline wise. i think it works as a future fic, like, not a long way down the road but a few years from now? idk. i wrote it way before s3 and even then i wasn't exactly sure when the hell it's happening. but this is fanfiction so we're cool y/y?
> 
> i had a version of this in hebrew up before i decided to post it in english, if any of you read it just so you won't be, like, confused, whatever. what i wanted to say is that it was beta'd in hebrew by [Or](http://charmedor.tumblr.com/) and then [Lee](http://trumpsofdoom.tumblr.com/%22) helped me go over it in english and they both deserve thank yous and love!
> 
> the most important thing is that this has a drawing in it, and it was drawn by the marvelous [zyarta](http://zyarta.tumblr.com/), and sparked this fic. i dedicated it to her like, probably a million times by now but i'll do it again here <3

So no, this is not how John expected to spend his afternoon. Though in hindsight, he should have known that his plans to fall asleep on the couch while the telly provides the numbing background noises and not front one of those bizarre moments that had become such a routine (up to the point where he can’t really call them bizarre anymore) was more like a teenager's wet dream than anything feasible; he should have known reality will plant a different face on them. And yet, the shuttering glass awakes him in a start, his hand reaches for a gun that is a floor up, and a wave of irrational disappointment hits him.

"Sherlock," he grumbles, rubbing his face. The remote pokes at his back, and he throws the blanket above him, sitting up. "Tell me this isn't toxic." The words come out without any thought, burned into his conscious and subconscious as if they were a briefing for an enemy raid in Afghanistan.

Sherlock frowns at the floor, like it had any choice but breaking his fallen flask. "I - "

"And don't be a smart-arse." John adds when he can operate beyond his autopilot.

"I never am a _smart-arse_." Sherlock directs his frown at him. His trousers are stained as well and his hands hang on either side of his body like he's not sure what to do with them when a mess that he created requires cleaning. John inhales deeply, doesn't want to get into an argument about linguistic nuances when on the kitchen floor a maybe-maybe not toxic liquid is splashed. Maybe they need to talk about a rule that will ban any experiments involving toxic things from happening inside the flat. For the time being, he settles on a clear question. 

"Is it toxic or nor?"

"Don't worry," Sherlock waves him off and goes back to trying to make the floor clean itself. Well, that says nothing. He sighs, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's not toxic."

And now he can relax and make sure Sherlock cleans it up while he takes his shower.

*  
The water hit the ceramics, irritating John’s ears, causing something he might call dizziness, but it wouldn’t be accurate. He messes around with the knobs till the temperature suits him and steps inside the shower, lets the heat wash over him. And maybe he should get used to something more measured, healthier, but London’s too cold sometimes, and he misses things that make your skin ache uncomfortably.

He was accustomed to quick showers, once, and the habit stuck even when he got back to London, when there weren’t any thoughts he wished to linger on, when his head was filled with the nothingness that constituted his life and from which he tried to escape.

And John haven’t noticed he started to spend more time under the flow of the shower head – thinking about financial problems and lack of sex and how to word his next blog entry, humming the last song played on the radio, pointedly ignoring anything too serious, and lately, thinking about Sherlock’s long frame slumped on top of him in mindless sleep – until Sherlock started complaining about how there are never enough warm water and lines from hideous pop songs get stuck in his head and how John will end up causing himself some skin damage, and why aren’t you using the one upstairs, anyway? It’s much more efficient.

He shrugged and smiled slightly, said the acoustics there are even worse, even though he wasn’t entirely sure of that. Sherlock went on an explanation of sound waves and what happens when they hit ceramics as opposed to other materials, of room structures and frequencies. John blinked, tried to understand the flood of words, and eventually accepted his faith as a layman in the physics of sound.

(Of course, today’s morning came with Sherlock’s claimed discovery of a pattern. John was sitting on the edge on the bathtub, waiting, yawning and stretching, running a hand through his hair and taking jealousy in the way Sherlock can change his status from Completely Asleep to Hyperactive without much disruption, when he wants to. _You’re not working today_ , Sherlock had said, and John chuckled and nodded, the implications fairly obvious. He’s here when he’s got time, and upstairs when he’s in a hurry. _You should shave_ , Sherlock had added when John laid a kiss to his bare shoulder, leaning into the touch as per usual, always searching for the closest available point to press up against, _You get cranky when it gets too long_.)

When John was ten, more or less, he would fill up baths and dive under the water. It was the only way to put some limit to his thoughts, and it used to be a problem, then. Maybe even today, sometimes. Maybe not. He learned to lock up what he needs to.

*  
Sherlock’s lying on the couch when John gets out, his legs crossed, reading a book that stands upright on his chest. It’s another one about bees. John’s pretty sure he already stacked a shelf and a half with books that has something to do with them. He’d already stopped trying to figure out what kind of information Sherlock finds useful and what kind he does not.

The kitchens’s clean, and on the kitchen cupboard bellow the sink a note that reads: _‘Careful, Glass.’_ Is duct-taped. An improvement from the last time Sherlock broke something, and later John cut his hand binning an orange peel. The note was probably written with all the cynicism Sherlock could have mustered unto the page, but that doesn’t stop a tiny smile from creeping to John’s lips.

He turns to the living room, considers finishing his next entry case and posting it but dismisses the idea. It’s too calm of a day for that.

“You’re quiet today,” he says, sitting on the couch’s armrest. Sherlock lowers his book and stares at him for a long while.

“Sweats?” He eventually asks, his voice a deep monotone, and folds his legs so John can slip in and sit next to him. Sherlock gives him a moment to get comfortable before landing his bare feet on his lap, and John warps his palms around them and sighs, neglects telling Sherlock that he really should wear socks when it’s this cold; it will get them nowhere at the moment.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock nods briefly and goes back to his book.

His feet’s temperature is borderline troubling, and John is tempted to ask if he still feels them even though he knows the answer will be yes, and that if it wouldn’t it’ll just be because he’d blocked anything but his current line of thought out.

He manages shutting up for long minutes, amusing himself with Sherlock’s toes and trying to dig the name of the last piece Sherlock played out of his memory – he wants to hear it again. Finally the need for conversation overcomes his efforts. People consider him a more patient man than Sherlock, but they are right only to some extent.

“What’s the deal with the bees?”

“Fascinating creatures.”

John’s not entirely sure whether it’s the mood in which Sherlock needs to be detached from the universe or the one where he needs John to keep talking till he gets a less laconic answer out of him.

“So it has nothing to do with any…experiment? Case?” And if John feels a bit of pride in that that there are other stuff besides murder and dead bodies in the list of Attention Worthy Things in Sherlock’s mind, he’ll say nothing.

“Not at the moment, no.”

Of course. Well, that is something, too.

Sherlock turns a page, and it seems as if it’ll be preferable that John will leave him be. If John were to ask, Sherlock would say that is was obvious to begin with.

John’s eyes seek the remote, and he debates whether to go for the television or the laptop. The remote is within hand’s reach; his laptop will require movement, or a favour from Sherlock. Neither of those seems possible at the moment, and John doesn’t want to move anyhow. It’s funny, how Sherlock seeks physical closeness even when he wants to get away from everything else.

“You’ve received an E-mail from your mother,” he suddenly says, like it is one of many thoughts running through his mind right now and coincidently it took the fast root to his mouth. 

“We did talk about reading my mail, right?” John furrows his eyebrows, honestly trying to remember, and the fact he’s so used to such an obvious display of disregard to privacy should bother him more.

“I didn’t read it.” Sherlock stretches one of his hands towards John’s laptop on the chair and passes it to John, making the decision for him.

Getting an e-mail from his mother feels awfully familiar even though it hasn’t happen for at least a year now. More familiar than a phone call, at least.

He stables the laptop on the armrest and clicks on his inbox. The message is sitting there, bolded in black letters amongst dozens of messages regarding new comments on his blog and newsletters from sites he’s not even sure what he signed up for (“Your inbox is becoming increasingly boring,” Sherlock had complained, and that led into an argument about how it’s not supposed to be a source of entertainment to him. Maybe half of what he said went through, if Sherlock only visited it but hadn’t read anything. Not that he isn’t right, though).

There’s an attachment to the message, and in small letters (tiny, actually. What kind of font is she even using? Does it mean he needs to get his sight checked out?) his mum had written: Come visit, Johnny. It’s been a while.

This is…strange. He expected a query for his well being and regards from his dad, an update about some benign stuff. He expected an I-know-you’re-not-getting-along-but-keep-an-eye-on-harry request. He expected the ordinary, some thing he can reply to in short and without any thought dedicated to it. He’d forgotten how to react when he can hear his mother between the lines.

John circles the clickable link with the mouse a couple of times and eventually clicks on it, his finger drumming on the plastic while he waits. He’s…nervous. Yeah, that’s what this is. And he got no reason to be, not really. This is just an image. Probably one of those optical illusions or astonishing National Geographic pictures his mother gets fanned about. It’s just that – 

[](http://imgur.com/VMiagwx)

It’s a photo of him. He’s eight, or maybe eleven really. John honestly can’t tell. If he’d ask Sherlock, he could probably tell him that, and millions of other details John might remember and might have forgotten about. But John…he fights the urge to close the file and the computer, the urge to close his eyes and not see a thing, bites his lower lip distractedly until a metallic taste fills his mouth.

He was never one of those eager to participate in this time traveling back by photographs, especially not with his family. None of them were. Each of them stayed confined with their own kept memories and it seems to him to be better this way; better than the reminder they exist outside of his head, than the reminder that even though they exist, nothing is going to keep them in touch. John still feels the need to run, even after running to the furthest place he could. And once, at a certain age, he surely felt different, he’s convinced that at some point in his life he stuck to his parent’s legs and didn’t let go. But he can’t remember enough of this time to go back there.

He has a ridiculous helmet haircut in the photo, which is not at all surprising, and his ear is picking out between the blonde hairs (John runs a hand through his current hair, wondering how it felt back then, pre years in the sands of Afghanistan). He remembers the jumper he’s wearing; it’s the only thing he remembers: a birthday present his gran had knitted for him. Well, that probably explains a lot about his clothing habits. John can’t decide if the photograph was taken at the back yard of their home or at the park, but it doesn’t actually matter.

He’s not sure what this was meant to provoke (guilt? Regret? Yearning? Who knows), but did his mother really think it would work? Because the only thing John actually feels is distant, like he’s back standing on the sidelines looking at his family from afar, and now Harry’s not here to notice and throw this inanimate object or other at him. He wonders if she’d gotten one as well, and what photograph is attached to hers if she did. He wonders if his dad is in on this.

A lulled thudding reminds John that Sherlock’s still lying next to him, and he sees him laying his book on the floor from the corner of his eye. It’s a rare occasion, to forget about Sherlock Holmes’ presence in a room. Even his silences usually remind you he’s there – heavy and cut off, inciting a morbid curiousity to know what’s inside his head, or amusing in his odd sense of peace. John feels something inside him readjusting, ceasing to muddle his chest. Sherlock aligns himself to sit, his feet sliding on John’s thighs to the far side, toes burrowing in the space between the cushion and the armrest. His knees are folded against John’s chest and his chin rests mere millimeters above John’s healthy shoulder. He examines the photo, squinching his eyebrows in confusion.

John exhales roughly, suddenly aware that Sherlock’s scrutiny is on _him_ , and it’s not like it didn’t happened enough times before for John to get used to being examined, he’s just… He knows that Sherlock had already read his past, but he doesn’t know how far he’d gotten, how deep, doesn’t know if this picture is even interesting enough for him to – 

“Your hair is ridiculous,” Sherlock hums, and the creases in his forehead disappear slowly, are replaced with an almost endeared expression. “And I’m tempted to cut off your ear.” Sherlock leans his body on the back of the couch, breathes on John’s neck in a tickling way that makes him giggle quietly.

“Thank God this is only a photo, then,” he replies, and for a moment he’s worried lest he’ll wake up without an ear one day. Sherlock must be aware that this issue will cross any possible line. He’s quite certain of that. John shakes the thought off, drawing meaningless lines on Sherlock’s thigh and shifts his eyes back to the photo. It feels as if it has already sunk in him, burned into his memory, and he’s not sure why that gets him angry at his mum, feeling as if she pushed another unwanted sentiment on him. “Want to tell me what’s _that_ all about?” John maybe sounds a bit bitterer than he meant to, folds the computer shut and leans back, stretching his neck to stare at the ceiling.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a stretching moment, and John wants to say, _It’s okay, I don’t really want to know_.

But he doesn't.

“A reminder, I suppose,” Sherlock ultimately says, but he’s so uncertain it makes John’s lips quirk up.

“Yeah, it didn’t take up the road she hoped for, I think.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, like all of what gathered in his mind during his observation is about to burst out, but the only thing that does is: “She asked you to come visit.”

John hums in approval and closes his eyes.

“And you’re not going to.”

Another hum. He lets his head roll till they’re forehead to forehead. “Turn the TV on.”

“Why?” John can feel Sherlock’s forehead creasing again in wonder. 

“So you can run a live commentary on a movie of your choice.”

He opens his eyes, sees Sherlock’s blurry, way too large face, and it’s blocking everything else from his sight. He thinks that Sherlock’s smiling.

“D’you think Mrs. Hudson will be opposed to bringing something up from Speedy’s?” Sherlock asks while turning on the telly, zapping between channels rapidly, searching for something that will be, maybe, worthy of his commentary.

“Yes.”

But Sherlock ignores him, already reaching to his ever available phone and rolling to his back so he can text a woman that is declared closer to Speedy’s only by seventeen steps that really should not be a problem for two grown men their age. John rolls his eyes instead of genuinely protesting, because there’s no point, because he knows Mrs. Hudson better than to think she would really consider it a bother. Because he can only hope Sherlock is polite enough in his message, and because the idea of getting food without spending energy is starting to appeal.

Because it’s this feeling he gets amidst a gunshot and a cup of tea; he’s comfortable. He just wants to stay.


End file.
